


I see thee better—in the Dark

by middlemarch



Series: Daffodil Universe [6]
Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: American Civil War, F/M, Feminism, Religion, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-21
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-06-03 14:33:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6614383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Mary contemplates virtue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I see thee better—in the Dark

Before the War, Mary knew she would never have stayed at a hotel as luxurious as Mansion House. She had been brought up with all of her needs met, but modestly; there was neither money for nor inclination to extravagance. Her mother had a few fine things—a cameo brooch, a black silk dress for Sunday—and her father similar with his watch and chain, but there was no pursuit of elaboration, though no frank shunning for the sake of virtue or frugality. Mary could not remember feeling deprivation as a girl, but her object delights were found in nature— pressing the first rose of the season; a collection of stones, very white, without the flicker of granite; an abandoned nest with one scarlet feather caught in the twigs.

It had changed little with her transition to adulthood. She had made a small income designing fabric patterns for the mill and lived at home with her brother’s growing family before her marriage. Her life had not been absent of pleasure but there was no excess. Gustav’s title brought little wealth, though his European tastes exposed her to a wider range of life’s delicacies. He was a chemist by profession but had appreciated the arts. Compared to the riches available in Dresden and Leipzig, New England had offered little but music for the development of the creative spirit, but they made as much of that as they could and Gustav patiently helped her improve her German so that they could read together the writers and philosophers of his home. Her life had been sewn with ordinary calico; even Gustav’s shroud had been an unexceptional homespun linen, flecked with lint and hemmed unevenly.

That she found herself now in this place, once a relative sybaritic paradise, she could hardly fathom at times. The former hotel was no longer in its glory, but the evidence of its opulence lingered. The wallpapers with their rich colors, the subtle embroidery on the drapery, the detailed moldings that met every angle and corner all made it clear this had been the refuge of the wealthy and cultured. Mary still noticed these things, sometimes registering them with pleasure as she walked through the wide halls, while at other times, her eye would be caught by the glint of gilt on a frame or a plaster curlicue as Jed or Hale hacked through a recalcitrant femur and she held the chloroformed cloth over a boy’s whiskerless face.

It had taken weeks before she had discovered the bathing room. The Greens had taken a smaller bedroom and installed a large tub of sheet copper with a mahogany surround in the center. At first, she hadn’t know what it was and was puzzled to think there was a place for laundering clothes within the hotel. One day, she’d come across Matron Brannan taking Dr. Hale to task for leaving a mess, a pile of sopping linens and some overturned jugs, and realized it was a permanent bathing tub. She’d grown up with the standard New Hampshire tin tub in front of the fireplace but before she left Boston, she’d heard some of the wealthier families were starting to create actual rooms in the house, just for bathing. It was still rather inconvenient, requiring multiple buckets of water to fill, and it was hard to keep the water anything but tepid, but the prospect of lying free within the water’s clasp, rather than jack-knifed, knees to sternum, was irresistible.

Mary found there were certain times of the day when the work had reached a low ebb and the men had as many of their myriad needs met as was humanly possible, when she might escape to the bathing room. In the early part of the night, before the clatter of the buckets might attract the inquisitive but while there were still others about who might tend to a boy’s sudden cry, she would steal away for a half hour. She had learned what she needed to bring with her—a pile of rough linen towels, a wrapper, a pair of worn slippers that rendered her a wraith in crossing the hallways. She had a small, precious cake of fine Castile soap she’d brought from home and she had found a little cracked dish in the kitchen to keep it safe on the deck of the tub. She could not manage to completely fill the tub without assistance, but she was entranced with the sensation of lying in the lukewarm water, feeling the surface break across her skin—breasts, belly and knees an archipelago. She would wash quickly and thoroughly with the soap and a flannel, then lie back in the water and simply be. As still as she was, the water would continue to shiver against her, rocked by her heartbeat and her breath. On rare occasions, she would unbraid her hair and rinse it in the water, letting it unfurl and float like a mermaid’s. It took many hours to dry this way but she found it lifted a weight from her neck she had carried so long, she’d forgotten what it was to be without it.

She found that even as her body became new and mysterious in the water, so her mind altered, a sea-change she had not anticipated. She had previously only experienced this while hovering on the edge of sleep, the boundary between dream and waking suddenly a wide prairie. During the day, her mind was an orderly place of rules and queues, priorities clearly delineated. There was so much to organize and arrange, so many interruptions to be accounted for and accommodated. She generally kept her temper or at least kept it to a manageable simmer when Hale fumbled or Jed decided he was the Holy Roman Emperor and not executive officer. Her attention was a bee, always seeking the next flower, lest a reprieve should force it from the sky. 

Lying in that cooling water, even more than her tangled bed, she found her thoughts and emotions would wander or dance, loosed from neatly graveled paths, re-assorting themselves as at a cotillion. On the verge of sleep, sometimes the bizarre would intrude. Reverie transformed frankly into dream; she might fly with fully feathered wings or speak again with Gustav, but hear only a trumpet’s blare from his mouth. In the bath, her body grounded her. She felt the touch of the water like runes traced all along her skin. She regained awareness of all her compass points and could be calmed by her own heartbeat. Mary discovered she felt more real, complete, within the water and could then retain that experience, like a veil she might draw over herself, as she settled to sleep.

She found it easiest then to consider Jedediah. Unconstrained by the day, by the propriety of petticoats and bodice, laced as tightly into her mores as her stays, she thought of him. Sometimes, she thought first of his gaze—those dark eyes curious, determined, impertinent. She remembered when he had begun to regard her differently; his look followed her about, fond, softly desirous. She allowed herself to appreciate what she knew he strove to keep in check—an appetite for her that was insatiable, she the satisfaction and yet still the incitement. Other nights, his clever hands were her focus. She knew them so well, though she wished to know more and more. She thought of how it had felt to draw them, the lovely hour free from time when her own hand had rendered that part of him, hers. How it had felt for him to regard the drawing and instantly recognize himself, his fingertips stroking the page so lightly near where her own hands had pulled the lead. The look he had given her then—of dawning, joyful realization—had transfigured her uneasy shyness into happy relief. She saw he had understood both what the picture conveyed and what its creation meant to her. She had stilled the trembling of her hand with the touch to his forearm, and had found he trembled, so slightly, in return.

The water soothed and stirred her in equal measure. Today, she had spent the day in the garden, the sun hot on her back, the fragrance of the turned earth reaching her in eddies. Jedediah had come and settled next to her after looming above, his face haloed by the afternoon light, a removed version of himself. She had enjoyed matching wits while methodically planting seeds and seedlings, her body equally present with her mind. When she had faltered, he declared himself again, untroubled by her need for repetition. Reassured, she had spoken a little of her own longing, but obliquely; she had been startled herself with the intimacy of their embrace but not its source. 

Her impetuous gesture had evolved into conviction with the feel of his rough curls and the salt of his sweat. Now, alone and wet, she thought of all her other wishes, the ones she had invoked in a whisper. Each was a bloom and not merely bud—to feel Jedediah’s hands trace her from the hollow at her throat to her belly; his warm mouth fast upon hers, then at her breast, a man’s exquisite suckle; his arms along hers, thighs between hers, her eager acceptance of his urgent approach, and the weight of his ruffled head on her shoulder, damp in aftermath. She envisioned the converse, the exchange of hypothesis and conclusion—her initiation and his reception, her flushed collapse after his jubilant, spent shout. She imagined their laughter then and the welcome transition from joyful excitement to contented union, the slide of him above her, from her, beside her.

Mary smiled at the thoughts, without shame about the origin of her desire or its object. Her mother had been the daughter of a physician and read widely, scavenging an education where she could. She had found Wollstonecraft’s “Vindication” easily quilted with her New Hampshire independence and Unitarian faith and brought up her daughters accordingly. She saw no benefit in any ignorance and quenched her own thirst for knowledge with her daughters’ education. Mary was taught to seek answers in the physical world and to know as much of nature as she could; in this, her mother had included her own nature, giving Mary the geography of herself and her blessing on further exploration. Mary had spent her girlhood running and skipping as much as sewing and reading; her first exhilaration came with skating icy ponds, her breath streaming as cirrus clouds, as evening fell early. As she had grown, Mary had discovered many of her own mysteries, first alone and then with the assistance of her gentle partner. That more had been forthcoming was not truly a revelation; she had found an infinite variety in flora and fauna, the human animal no more nor less. She had not known such desire before falling in love with Jed but she had been refashioned in so many ways, with a wider range and greater perception of extremes. Time and loss had equaled nature as catalysts; the daily suffering she saw now awakened her to the pitch of human sensation, the numberless iterations of pain balanced with as many avenues to pleasure. She was grateful to learn the depth and ingenuity of her body’s yearning and glad there were so many ways to experience solace and joy. She had not anticipated her life could hold such perennial delight.

As to her object, oh there she had struggled! Initially, when she thought of Eliza Foster, her thoughts skittered away, iron filings repelled by magnetic charge, unbreachable. This happened most during daylight, when the distraction of so many sick men already absorbed the majority of her concentration. But at night, those long nights of half-dark from a lamp at a vigil, of half-dead boys striving to become wholly live or dead, she became aware her feelings for Jed were not merely admiration, respect, concern; then she began the battle, Jacob with the angel. Those were mornings she would rise, unrefreshed and ill at ease, unsure if she were mistaken, dishonored and dishonorable. She wept for dying boys who could not die and admitted she wept for herself; she railed against injustice, Bullen’s depravity, the polite dehumanization of so many by the Greens and their ilk and knew she railed against herself. She carried the dissolution of the Union in her heart.

And then, grace! She had turned to prayer from desperation. She remembered her hand upon Gustav’s when he was beyond speech but still his eyes regarded her with such gentleness and how she had found it in herself to smile at him. Mary recalled the verse, “Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.” She thought less of her position and more of Jedediah’s—estranged from his wife, his mother, seeking to regain command of himself while he was responsible for so many others. She knew many days, he felt forsaken. It occurred to her that she might again make a gift of her love. She did no harm to anyone by offering her deepest and complete affection to Jedediah. She did not covet Jedediah; she simply loved him. 

She and Eliza Foster were at opposite poles; they did not intersect and no action of hers would be taking anything from the other woman. It was unclear to her what degree of attachment remained between Jed and his wife beyond the legal; it seemed the marrow had been sucked clean from their wedding vows. She did not seek to destroy their marriage but only to be the truest and tenderest companion to the man who was dearest to her. She allowed herself to accept as truth that her passionate longing for him could be communicated without damage to their mutual honor or their integrity. It was intrinsic to her feeling, a natural aspect; as a petal had no relative inferiority to a stem, so her lust was not a lesser or corrupt manifestation of her affection. Their society demanded a degree of chastity that she would not breach but she reflected that society’s general judgments about virtue were not infallible. Despite what Jedediah said, she was convinced that the crux of this very War was righting the great wrong society had done in declaring some human beings property, “contraband,” as they had it here, as if any person could belong to anyone other than themselves and their God. Her faith told her that she must choose and she must evaluate the morality of her actions, not simply conform to a series of rules. She must aspire to the application of principles, her own philosopher-king.

She was decided. Theirs would a consummation of soul before body but not despite or without the body’s contribution. She was able to love Jedediah fully without allowing her love to cause him damage; she would deny neither of them the acknowledgement of the desire that originated in their flesh but there would be no corresponding action to bring injury or ruin. She would not be his wife but she could be his partner, a fellow pilgrim soul. She learned every day how many ways a man could die. She had seen how they longed most for their loves at the end, as they had cried for it at their births. Should Eliza return, she would withdraw to the simplicity of friendship and would have to find a way to accept her margins. Until that time, she would be all to him, endure all, and rejoice when her love alit on him, like a ship’s first sighting of a gull, a sign that home was within reach.

**Author's Note:**

> This was intended as a companion/sequel to “This is a Blossom of the Brain.” I wanted to give Mary a chance to explore her feelings and sexual fantasies but I also wanted to address a point emmadelosnardos made in a comment:
> 
> “What I really love about all this is that you have already written their love confession, and yet you have them in a bind because Jed is still married. But instead of them clamming up or avoiding each other, it is as if they have decided to keep confessing their love to each other, to let them proceed as if there is no issue with them speaking about their love as long as they don't act on it.”
> 
> I really wanted to find a way to explore how Mary could express herself so directly while not compromising her own morality as these are two of her defining traits. I’m not sure I have entirely succeeded in convincing Mary or myself, but I gave it the old college try. I have already let Jed decide to ask Eliza for a divorce by this point, so he is struggling less with the idea of their relationship, since he is preparing to be able to marry Mary. 
> 
> I also wanted to answer the request I had for Mary’s perspective on “Make me a picture of the sun” so instead of a whole companion story, I tucked it in here. Emily Dickinson again graciously titled this story. And now, for the research-y bits:
> 
> Mary Wollstonecraft (/ˈwʊlstən.krɑːft/; 27 April 1759 – 10 September 1797) was an English writer, philosopher, and advocate of women's rights. During her brief career, she wrote novels, treatises, a travel narrative, a history of the French Revolution, a conduct book, and a children's book. Wollstonecraft is best known for A Vindication of the Rights of Woman (1792), in which she argues that women are not naturally inferior to men, but appear to be only because they lack education. She suggests that both men and women should be treated as rational beings and imagines a social order founded on reason.
> 
> The account of Jacob wrestling with the angel is found in Genesis 32:22-32 and referenced elsewhere, such as Hosea 12:4. The account includes the renaming of Jacob as "Israel", literally "He who struggles with God." The being with which Jacob wrestles is variously described as an angel, a man, or God. Jacob asks the being his name, and while he doesn't receive an answer, Jacob names the place where they wrestled Peniel or Penuel or Phanuel. [Genesis 32:29-30] The event occurs during Jacob's journey back to Canaan.
> 
> Unitarianism is historically a Christian theological movement named for the affirmation that God is one entity, in direct contrast to Trinitarianism, which defines God as three persons in one being.[1] Unitarianism is also known for the rejection of several other Western Christian doctrines,[4] including the soteriological doctrines of original sin and predestination,[5][6] and, in more recent history, biblical inerrancy.[7] Unitarians have liberal views of God, Jesus, the world and purpose of life as revealed through reason, scholarship, science, philosophy, scripture and other prophets and religions. They believe that reason and belief are complementary and that religion and science can co-exist and guide them in their understanding of nature and God. They also do not enforce belief in creeds or dogmatic formulas. The first official acceptance of the Unitarian faith on the part of a congregation in America was by King's Chapel in Boston, which settled James Freeman (1759–1835) in 1782, and revised the Prayer Book into a mild Unitarian liturgy in 1785. In 1800, Joseph Stevens Buckminster became minister of the Brattle Street Church in Boston, where his brilliant sermons, literary activities, and academic attention to the German "New Criticism" helped shape the subsequent growth of Unitarianism in New England.
> 
> The typical mid-19th-century bathtub was a product of the tinsmith's craft, a shell of sheet copper or zinc. In progressive houses equipped with early water-heating devices, a large bathtub might be site-made of sheet lead and anchored in a coffin-like wooden box. 
> 
> Castile soap is a name used in English-speaking countries for vegetable oil based soap made in a style similar to that originating in the Castile region of Spain.[1] Traditionally made with olive oil, it now may be used for any hard, white, vegetable-based soap.
> 
> 1 Corinthians 13:7-8 English Standard Version (ESV)  
> Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.


End file.
